Irae Dies
by kaitlin.perkins42
Summary: In a global society where slavery is sign of wealth, one boy feels everything is wrong. That doesn't keep Blaine from accepting his gift slave on his 14th birthday, though...Warnings: Slavery, mentions of dub-con/non-con slight disfigurement.
1. Irae Dies

Title: Irae Dies (chapter 1)  
>Words: ~2500<br>Rating: R  
>Disclaimer: All recognizable characters here-in belong to Fox. They are not mine - only the unknown characters belong to me. Absolutely no profit of any kind is being made from the publication of this writing.<br>Warnings: Slavery, mentions of dub-con/non-con. Possible squicking with slight disfigurement. Oh, and some slash, too. :)

**A/N:** I don't know where this idea came to me from. **It is very dark and may be very disturbing to some, so I warn you : tread lightly.** This story concerns a society with a very aggressive way of treating slaves. If you would like more details before reading, please message me and I will be happy to start a dialogue with you. If you feel ready to read on, please enjoy!  
>AN2: I have never really written and fanfic like this before, so I would absoutely adore getting some feedback from you guys. Thanks a ton!

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><p>When they first arrived at the compound, new slaves had their lips sewn shut with a tight criss-crossing pattern which made full use of the yard of thread that had been painstakingly measured and cut for them. The people who performed this difficult task were trained in every possible detail and aspect of the duty by the Alliance's chairman. At least this is what Blaine Anderson had heard from his friend, Wes.<p>

But when he flipped half-heartedly through the catalogue, sitting in the abysmally dark waiting room of the compound, he saw all of the slaves had untouched lips. Well, at least they were unmarred by sewing needle and thread. The lights flickered from the ceiling, and although he was trying so very hard to be grateful, Blaine wondered to himself – for what must have been the twentieth time that day – why his parents had brought him and his younger sister to the compound. His fourteenth birthday was rolling around, and they had said something about a special gift, but he honestly would have preferred a video gaming station, or that new guitar he had asked for. Still, the saying did go "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," and he certainly didn't want to be rude. He dropped the catalogue on the table in front of him and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. How many people had sat in this very same spot before him? Biding their time until they could own the sickly piece of flesh of their choosing? How many people had held that same catalogue in their hands? Waiting with a desperate anguish to see if their lust would be provided with a worthy outlet? Blaine shook his head, trying to clear the tumultuous thoughts, and shifted again. The cushion of his seat was almost completely worn down, so it was no more than a thin sheet of fabric covering the seat of the chair.

Blaine glanced anxiously at his parents and his sister. They sat together on a couch that was perpendicular to his chair and were talking and laughing together. They portrayed the average family who came in to buy a slave. Well dressed, happy, excited and anxious to see and judge their purchase. Blaine was well dressed, too of course, but the anxiety that rushed through him was far more negative than that which his parents and sister were currently experiencing. Though he had been raised in a culture in which slavery was not only accepted, but a sign of massive wealth and societal clout, Blaine had his doubts about the entire Alliance. Nobody really knew where the slaves came from, or how they continued to be produced in such voluminous numbers. It surprised him, really, how many people could afford to parade their naked belongings on the sidewalk outside. He did, however, live in one of the wealthiest provinces of the Americas, and as such was privy to a much more upscale lifestyle than the average citizen.

His youth had been filled with the adventures of a rich, spoiled boy, raised in a family that not only accepted the life of an overflowing bank account, but embraced it. The Anderson family already owned four slaves, but they were different slaves. They had been purchased in the clean A Sector of the compound and were used for cleaning, cooking and other daily chores that Blaine's mother was too busy to perform. The slaves purchased from A-C sectors of the compound were healthy, young, smart, talented, and sold with clothing on. While it was not a requirement that they be allowed to stay clothed once they arrived at the owners' properties, they most often did. They served a much different purpose than the nude slaves of D Sector. The shabby state of D Sector made Blaine feel dirty, and ashamed of being there. Some of his school friends had received D slaves as gifts, and they talked about them with a rigorous and unflinching pride. Blaine didn't know if he would tell anyone about this. He didn't even know if he wanted to tell Wes about it – and they had been best friends for 10 years.

A woman stepped out from behind a large metal door, and Blaine could see a ring, jingling with at least fifty different keys, attached to chain, which hung from her hip. It was clipped to her wrist and so it made a clanking sound every time she took a step or lifted her arm. She was dressed in all black – leather pants and fitted cotton tank top, as well as a long black jacket. Her boots came to about mid-calf and were covered in silver buckles with straps. He wasn't sure about the necessity of a uniform like that, but he also knew that when one was in the Alliance's compound, one avoided asking unnecessary questions. She flipped her auburn curls away from her face and tugged a piece of paper out of her pocket. Reading it over, she quickly looked up at them, scrutinizing their dynamic. "Are you the Andersons?"

"Yes," Blaine's father replied, rising to stand. He put a hand on his wife's shoulder. "I'm Thomas Anderson, this is my wife Elaine, my daughter Jenine, and my son, Blaine."

"Blaine, you're the one choosing today." She voiced it as a statement, not a question. The fear and concern bubbled hotter in Blaine's stomach as he nodded at her. He knew he didn't like her, or her thick soled boots that pressed loudly into the floor as she walked towards him. When she reached out with her chained arm, he knew the proper response was to take her hand. Blaine's parents had gone over all of the rules and steps with him many times, night after night, so that he would behave perfectly. Having purchased four slaves already, they knew how to behave. But this was Blaine's first time. The woman had long, black fingernails that were filed sharp to a point at the end. Blaine swallowed at the lump in his throat when he saw her hand tense. He had kept her waiting for too long. His mother made to step forward, but before anyone else could move, Blaine's hand shot out (almost of its own accord) and grasped the woman's thin hand. He could feel her bones moving as she wrapped her fingers tightly around his small hand.

"Come with me." Her voice was flat, and betrayed no emotion. But Blaine knew that, had his parents not been present, his hesitation would have gotten him into a lot of trouble with this woman. He was loathe to follow her through the thick metal door alone, and when he heard the magnet click into place behind them, locking the door shut, his stomach began to turn summersaults. Regardless of his fear, he had to go on his own – only the owner would see and choose the slave. Only the owner had the right. The privilege. He knew that the woman wouldn't - couldn't – do anything to harm him. As a paying customer he was safe. Still, her icy grip was firmer than he might like on his hand and he was hoping she would let go soon. But for ten minutes they walked through dark and winding corridors, walls lined with dimmed one-way mirrors met them at every turn. Blaine was lost, and didn't understand how his guide knew where she was – everything looked exactly the same to him. But eventually she stopped, at one turn there was a break in all of the mirrors and there was another door, just like the first one through which he had followed her.

She grabbed at her keys and without looking picked out the correct one in seconds. She shoved it into the lock unceremoniously and dragged Blaine through the door. Across from him, as soon as he fell through the entrance, he saw a wall lined with bedraggled young men and women. Naked young men and women. Naked young men and women with their lips…sewn shut. Wes _hadn't _been lying. Blaine tried not to be sick to his stomach as the adolescents across from him looked up, meeting his gaze with pathetically empty eyes, sunken into gaunt faces. _What kind of a birthday gift _is _this?_ The teens were all clearly about his age, in varying stages of puberty, and yet they stood boldly with their hands behind their backs. It wasn't until he swallowed down the bile in his throat, that Blaine realized they stood that way only because their hands were forced behind their backs by the stiff twine wrapped 'round their wrists.

"You need to choose." The woman's voice belied what Blaine was sure was only a modicum of the impatience she felt.

"I…this is…these are…" his stammered words made no sense to his own ears. He could not find the words to express his mingled confusion, revulsion and pity. He wanted to pick all of them, take them home, feed them and then set them free. But of course that would cost too much and ultimately get him arrested. Slaves were property of the Alliance and as such, could only be granted their freedom by the Alliance. Upon their owner's death, or if their owner grew weary of them, slaves were sent back to the Alliance to be sold to a new owner. They were nothing but a recyclable product.

"Not good enough for you?" Her hand moved to the door.

"I just…"

"It's okay." There was a slight tinge of a Russian accent in her voice. But her English was flawless. "We have one that just came in. It's still in its cell; I didn't have time to prep it for you. But you can look at it. Maybe you'll prefer that one."

Blaine nodded, not truly wanting to see anything else. If he had known how to get out there, he would have turned and run for the door. He would tell his parents he wanted something else for his birthday. But he had no clue how to escape, so he gave one last accidental glance to the people who were no longer people and followed the woman out the door. She led him a short way to one of the mirrors and pushed a small button on the wall. The mirror lit up and Blaine could see inside. There was a petite boy inside, who glanced up nervously from his spot on the floor when the light came on, but Blaine knew he couldn't see through his side of the glass. He had a thin frame, but he wasn't skeletal as the others had been. His skin was taut over lean muscle, almost porcelain in color. His lips had only recently been sewn shut and beads of dried blood rested on his mouth. His hands weren't tied behind his back, but instead wrapped protectively around his bents knees, which were hugged to his chest. Blaine could see that his tattoos were also fresh. His ankle, hip, wrist and neck all bore the same number, red and raw, glistening with the salve that had been rubbed on them. His identification number would help to alert the authorities if he ever went missing, and having it in four places made it far more difficult to cover up.

He glanced up at the mirror, his short hair falling back from his face. Most of the slaves were shaved upon arrival, but it appeared he hadn't been to the barber's yet. He had ice blue eyes, and even though Blaine _knew _that he couldn't see through the glass pane, he felt as though this newly indentured slave was staring right through him. Right into his soul. Blaine let one hand rest on the wall near the frame of the mirror and he breathed out heavily. "Yes," he said, unable to contain his sigh. "This will do."

"It's a fresh arrival from today," said the woman. She hadn't moved since turning on the light. Her hand rested on the button, waiting to turn off the light and sever the connection between Blaine and his future slave. Blaine listened to her but, and he knew it was rude, his eyes never left the boy. "We still have to collar and tag it. We can shave it, too if you want."

"Just collar and tag it. That will be sufficient. I'm rather fond of the hair." He didn't notice his breath making fog on the glass.

"As you wish," she said before turning off the light, immersing the boy in darkness. She pulled a small pad of paper from her coat and scribbled something on it. When she ripped the page out of the note pad and handed it to Blaine, he saw that the number matched those from the boy. "Take that with you, go back the way we came. Give it to Harold. He'll be waiting by the door to see you out."

"I don't –"

"Know how to get back?" She asked knowingly and then sighed at his emphatic nod. "Marcus!" Her scream was shrill, loud, and unexpected. It seemed, though, that Marcus had expected it for he appeared immediately from behind another door that Blaine had not noticed before. "Marcus," she loudly ordered the frail, old man, "Take Mr. Anderson back to the entrance. Ensure that he arrives there and no harm comes to him on his way. Do you understand me?"

Marcus nodded but Blaine was even more uncomfortable holding his hand than he was the woman. On the walk back to the entrance, he found himself almost wishing for her cold grip and long, fast stride. Marcus performed his task, and showed Blaine to Harold, who opened the door. Blaine's parents were waiting anxiously on the other side. "Did you pick one?" his mother asked him, reaching out to touch his cheek.

"Yes, mother. Thank you. This is such a wonderful gift."

"I knew you'd like it. I told you he'd like it," his father grinned widely. "Come, son," he said, "They'll just be writing up the paperwork and we'll be able to take it home within the hour. Wouldn't want to keep you waiting." Blaine followed, allowing his father to grip tightly at his shoulder. But he try as he might, the thirteen year old couldn't ignore the sick churning of his stomach.


	2. Diversus

Title: Diversus (chapter 2/?)  
>Rating: PG-13<br>Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine, no profit is being made from this.  
>Warnings:Slavery, mentions of dub-connon-con. Possible squicking with slight disfigurement. Oh, and some slash, too. :)  
>AN: Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read this and review it. I`m so excited to see where this story takes Blaine and Kurt and I hope you are too! On with the tales!<p>

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><p>Blaine tried to maintain a smile as they walked from D Sector to the center of the compound where his parents would pay for, and he would receive, his slave. They would get the boy's paper work at the center desk, and then Blaine would know where the boy came from, how old he was, what his name used to be. Well, at least he would know what the paper said. It was common knowledge that the history of the slaves was often fudged, or even faked entirely to cover up the true fashion in which the slave was procured. When the Alliance had come into being, the world was still divided into countries, and Russia was its starting point. There it was easy to find lonely singles that had no attachments to anyone else what so ever. They were abducted and sold on the black market, quietly, so as not to arouse too much suspicion. But at the same time, the government of many countries was just beginning to crumble. The revolution in Egypt of 2011 began a worldwide revolt against organized governments. Eventually the entire economy shifted to a global one, borders were re-drawn and a world government ruled.<p>

When the new government took over, somehow the Alliance had made friendly with some top guns and wedged its way in. Now the chairman of the Alliance held a seat at the right hand of the world's president and as such, the Alliance always got what they wanted. So if a few good people went missing, if a few records were changed or shredded entirely, the president and his underlings tended to look the other way. It wasn't perfect by any means, nor, for some countries, was it better than before. In fact, for what had once been North America, things were much, much worse. But Blaine had been born into this world, he knew nothing of the world in which his parents had tried to find a home and build a foundation on which to raise a family. All he knew was a world where slavery was once again legal, and his bank account was held with GBW: Global Banks of the World.

The halls of the compound soon changed from a glazed cement to marble. The center of the compound, entirely made of ridiculously expensive stone, was chilling in size and temperature. Blaine pulled his arms around his waist to retain some heat and sped up his stride, wanting to leave the imposing building as soon as possible. He liked the center even less than he had liked D Sector. The light shone in through a high opening in the ceiling, but with the room being so large, all of the heat rose to the top and was far out of Blaine's grasp. Now he understood why all of the compound staff wore coats. His father strode purposefully to the desk. "I'm here to pay for Blaine Anderson's purchase."

Surprisingly, to Blaine, the woman at the desk was the first seemingly friendly face he had seen within the compound. She nodded and turned, and miraculously, Harold was behind her. Either there was a short cut, or he walked alarmingly fast because Blaine had neither seen nor heard Harold while the family had traversed to the center. Harold gave her the receipt slip and winked at Blaine, who had to mentally will himself not to shudder. His father held out his wrist and lady swiped a large black wand over it. The wand beeped once and flashed a green light before she nodded. "Good to go," she said to Harold, "Bring it out."

There was a door on the far end of the room and Blaine instinctively turned to watch it. It opened shortly after her announcement, regardless of the fact that neither the woman, nor Harold had moved. Did these people just sit at doors, eavesdropping until they heard their cue to come out? The boy from the cell was pushed out, unsteady and nervous on his feet. There was now a thick black leather collar around his neck, which was attached to a shining, sterling silver chain. A tag hung off of the front of the collar. The boy's eyes were wide with fear and what was quite possibly hatred – Blaine had never seen a slave with any emotion in their expression, let alone something as passionate as hate. His heart fluttered at the thought that perhaps this young man was not a lost cause. The woman bringing him out had to push and force him forward so that he tripped over his own feet, struggling against his shut mouth to voice his anger. Strangled moans and grunts emanated from his throat and were echoed by the large room. The patter of his bare feet on the cold floor rang in Blaine's ears. When the boy was close enough, Blaine could see that he was, expectedly, covered in goose bumps.

The boy stumbled forward so that he was only a foot or so away from Blaine, close enough that their breath was mingling. The woman handed the chain leash to Blaine, who took it with shaking hands, though he tried to hide it. His father took the handbook from Harold and handed it to Blaine. "Your mother and I know all of this, of course, and I'm sure you've picked some of it up around the house. But having your own is different. I want you to have this read by tonight, okay? We should avoid any slip ups in procedure." Blaine nodded and gripped the book so hard, his knuckles whitened. He turned to follow his father out of the compound and felt a slight tug on the end of the leash, but when he turned to look, the boy was hastening to follow along, arms tied awkwardly behind his back.

The drive home was long and winding. The new slave sat in the trunk, as all of the other slaves had before him. There was an old quilt back there, and his hands had been untied and re-tied in front of the boy's torso ("We're not barbarians," Blaine's father had said while fixing the knot.) to offer him some sense of comfort, curled in the trunk of the van and bouncing hard with every pot hole that the vehicle hit. The boy didn't make any noise while they were traveling, and Blaine's younger sister ended up falling asleep. Alone in the back seat of the car, Blaine turned to the Slave Owner's Guide, being one of the few people who does not get sick while reading in the car.

His attention waned, however after page 3 or so of the directives given by the author. The Alliance had written the book at least 20 years ago, and some of it was absolutely irrelevant to the current situation. They had so much money, Blaine thought to himself, why didn't they have someone re-write this thing? He dropped the book onto his lap, leaving it open to the page he was on. He turned to look over his shoulder into the trunk. His present was curled into a tight ball, his head tucked under his arm. Blaine dropped his hand over the back of his seat and it landed lightly on the boy's hip. The slave hissed quietly but looked up obediently at the contact. There were tear tracks on his face, and Blaine could see his chin quivering. Trying to be of some comfort to the poor creature, Blaine softly traced a circle on the soft skin. The boy nodded but otherwise didn't respond. The two sat like that for a few moments until Blaine's arm began to ache from its contortion and he forced himself to turn away. He wasn't sure if the slave had kept eye contact because he wanted to, or because he had to. Picking up the book again was one of the last things Blaine wanted to do, but he _did _want to prepare for the arduous task ahead of him. Owning a slave was a huge responsibility.

When they arrived home, Blaine's neck ached from bending over the book for so long. But he had finished the introductory chapter and the section on owning D Sector slaves. The rest of it was superfluous knowledge that he could soak up at his own leisure – he knew the important stuff, at least. He tucked the book under his arm before getting out of the van and walking around to the back to open the trunk. His slave was still awake, his eyes wide. It seemed his wasn't sure who his owner was – slaves were not made aware of the laws of purchasing, so unless they could ask other slaves, they usually didn't understand the process. But when Blaine took a hold of his leash, he could see the realization in the boys eyes, and what was quite possibly relief. Blaine understood why – D Sector slaves were often young and beautiful, and sold to wealthy adults. The life they would have was generally one full of pain and humiliation, degrading sex and a long yearning for death. This boy was one of the lucky ones, and even if he didn't know the rules, he knew that.

He climbed out of the car, pushing his arms out to stretch. He looked as though he wanted to yawn, but then remembered that he no longer had the freedom of opening his mouth. Instead he arched his back and stood on the balls of his feet, stretching out his aching muscles. Blaine tugged gently on the leash. "I want to clean you up," he said and began walking inside the house. Before opening the door, he turned back to his parents. "Thank you again," he said stiffly. Blaine didn't want this, he hadn't asked for it, but proper etiquette dictated that he should be grateful, and so he was going to at least pretend to be. His mother nodded while his father pulled his still sleeping younger sister out of the vehicle.

"When you get inside, call Mimi, won't you? Jenine needs to be put to bed."

Blaine didn't answer, but his parents knew he would do as he was told. He led his slave upstairs after shouting out to Mimi. After directing the small boy into his room, Blaine shut the door. He walked over to the bed and patted it. "You can sit here," he told the slave. The boy came over and sat next to him while Blaine dropped the manual onto the desk. "I'm sure you'd like to have a bath," Blaine began talking to the boy, "but I bet the first thing you want to do is get that string out of your mouth."

The boy shrugged. Most of the time the only reasons D slaves could open their mouths was to perform sexual favours. He would probably rather get used to not being able to move his mouth, than be forced to provide oral sex. "Don't worry," Blaine told him, moving to his desk to get a pair of scissors. "I'm not like them." He wasn't sure who he was referencing when he said them, but he wanted his slave to know that he was different. He was his own person, uncontrolled by society. The boy stared nervously at the scissors as they came to his face, but when Blaine snipped open the first stitch, it was as though the slave leaned in, eager to be free – if only in the most meagre sense of the term. Blaine carefully cut each section of thread until he got to the other end of the boy's mouth. He was afraid he might cut the kid's lips in the process and he had already been put through enough pain for one day. After letting the boy experimentally open and close his mouth a few times, Blaine snipped off the dangling threads.

Even with his potential vocal freedom, the boy hadn't said anything. Blaine threw the pieces of thread into the garbage can and dropped the scissors on his desk. "Do you want to take a shower?" he asked. The boy nodded and stood so Blaine could remove the leash attached to his collar. The collar however was not legally allowed to be taken off. Ever. The other slaves of the house slept in their own wing, and had their own bathroom. But Blaine had discussed things with his father, and it had been arranged that Blaine's slave would stay with him. D slaves were a different breed of their own, and as such, families had different standards for them. Blaine led his slave into his bathroom and turned on the shower. "That way is hot," he said, illustrating by turning the handle, "and that way is cold. I'll bring you a towel, and you only use that soap." Kind as he was, Blaine would _never _share soap with a slave. The boy nodded and climbed into the shower. "Don't be too long," Blaine directed as he turned to leave the bathroom, not bothering to close the door.


	3. On the Edge

Title: On the Edge  
>Words: ~3,500<br>Rating: R (dub-con)  
>Summary: Blaine is trying to convince himself that having a sex slave isn't wrong. But he's having a lot of trouble with that...<br>Disclaimer: As per usual. Not mine. I make no claim to them.  
>AN: Sorry it's been so long since the last update. I was on vacation, and had NO INTERNET! So this next update is a little longer to make up for it.

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><p>When the slave came out of the bathroom, he looked marginally better, but only just. He held the brown towel – all of the slaves in the Anderson household used brown towel, at least they still went with the décor – in a fist, wrapped low around his hips. His mouth was adorned with small holes every millimetre or so, and his wet hair was plastered haphazardly to his head. He nodded at Blaine where he sat at his computer. "I'm done." His voice was high and quiet, slightly melodious. The way he spoke, slowly and stiffly, it seemed as though it was a chore to say anything at all. Still, the soft musicality of his voice made Blaine that much more pleased that he had chosen him from the compound. There was beauty emanating from this poor soul's every pore.<p>

"I can see that." Blaine's response was a little delayed, but the boy didn't seem to mind. He stood stock still, unmoving, waiting for his master to make the first move. "Are you hungry?" Blaine asked, he wasn't sure how often the slaves were fed while they were at the compound, much less the new arrivals whom had just had their mouths sewn shut_: how did they feed them, anyways?_ The boy looked as though he was considering the best way to answer the question. He was probably starving, but was afraid of being punished for an honest answer. Blaine held out a hand, prompting the younger boy to take off his towel and drop it in the outstretched palm. At least he wasn't stupid. Dropping the towel into the garbage can, Blaine turned back from him. "I won't permit you to back talk, or to speak inappropriately of your own accord. However, if I ask you a question, I give you permission to always answer me honestly, without fear of rebuke. Do you understand?" That sounded close enough to what he had read in the pamphlet: straight forward, and to the point, but detailed enough that nothing would be left out.

The boy nodded and looked quickly at the trash bin where Blaine had just dropped the towel. "I am very hungry, yes. For food."

Blaine found the qualification odd, but tried not to consider the underlying meaning of the boy's need to provide it. "I'll have Jessa bring you something up. When's the last time you ate?" he asked while walking to the wall, pushing a button and waiting for the responding beep.

"Two days ago. They don't want us to have anything to vomit up when they sew us shut, so they don't feed us for –" the slave cut himself off, looking mortified for having spoken out of turn.

"Yes, master Blaine?" the speaker on the wall buzzed with Jessa's voice, and Blaine's slave jumped, staring at the wall.

"Jessa," Blaine said, choosing to ignore his slave's slip up. He would give him some time to adjust before being too harsh on him. "Can you bring up some food for my new slave?"

"Yes, master Blaine. I'll be right up." Blaine nodded, even though she couldn't see him before turning to his slave.

"What is your name anyways?"

The boy shifted and looked out the window, a fierce yearning painted clearly across his face. "The name by which the Alliance wishes me to be called is here on my tag." Slowly his hand rose to softly touch the silver piece of metal that sat just by his small Adam's apple. He moved towards Blaine, holding out the tag for him to take and read it.

"No," Blaine shook his head and backed away. "That's not what I meant. What's your real name? Your birth name?"

The boy glanced nervously at Blaine for a moment. He looked as though he was still unsure whether he may be punished for being honest with his new owner. "Kurt," he finally said, letting the word come out on a tense breath.

"Kurt?" The terse name didn't really seem to fit the beautiful boy standing in front of Blaine: Pale, smooth skin, supple lips, light, soft hair, slim, feminine hips and an air of grace. He walked over and fingered the tag at the boy's neck. Blaine's family had always called slaves by their Alliance assigned names, but Blaine wasn't sure how he felt about that tradition. Even though they weren't real people, it wasn't as though slaves were dogs. You couldn't really just rename a human being, at least not as far as Blaine was concerned. A person's name was a part of them – it was the only thing that belonged to the slaves anymore, and it didn't feel right to him to take that away, too. He wanted to call Kurt by his birth name, but he was still tempted to see what name the Alliance had chosen for him. Perhaps it was more fitting. Finally he looked at it. _Gabriel_, it read. Well, Blaine certainly didn't like that. For some reason, the Alliance seemed to have a fondness for religious names. Most slaves were named after people from the Torah, Koran or Bible. But Gabriel was not a fitting name for this angel standing anxiously in front of him. He would call the boy Kurt until he could find a more fitting name for him, one that Kurt would have to agree to.

All while Blaine had been thinking and deciding, the boy stood, unsure of what was expected of him, unwilling to move unless told to do so. Blaine walked back to his computer and plopped himself at the desk. "You can sit over there," he pointed to the mat in the corner of his room. When Kurt wasn't in his bed with him, that would be his sleeping place. However, Blaine wasn't really sure how often Kurt wouldn't be in bed with him. The boy's divine beauty prompted him to believe that those times would be few and far between. Kurt walked slowly over to the mat, and sat down, crossing his legs and leaning back against the wall – all the while staring desperately out the window. "Your food will be here, soon," Blaine told him, unsure of what else to say.

To be honest, now with all of the introductory and precursory things taken care of, Blaine wasn't sure what to do with Kurt. He had read the manual, sure, but he didn't really want to do any of _that_. Okay, he did. But he didn't want to force Kurt. He didn't want to push himself on something that wonderful – he wanted Kurt to want him, too. He wondered about all of his friends at school who talked about their D slaves, if they just had sex with them, or made them perform fellatio on them. Blaine shuddered at the thought of Kurt on his knees, bright blue eyes looking up at him through those thick lashes. At the thought, though, Blaine shook his head. He wasn't sure where it had come from. He had been educated on sex as far as school would allow, and of course his older buddies at school had told him everything they knew. Obviously, he wasn't sure how much he could trust their knowledge. Still, Blaine hadn't thought much about sex before his parents told him he was going to get a slave for his birthday. At 14, Blaine assumed he was strange for not having a wet dream every night.

He sighed and propped his head on his hand, turning on his computer. He was going to look up names and see if he could find anything fitting for the boy who was sitting silently across the room from him, burning a hole through the window with an intense stare. Shortly after he began his search, Jessa opened his door and brought in a tray. She set it on the desk – it was up to Blaine to decide when, how, how much – even if – Kurt ate. He looked down at the almost clear broth and rye bread. "Come here," he called to the boy, who promptly responded and padded over quietly, feet pressing into the cool hard-wood floor. Kurt kneeled appropriately next to the desk, hands on his thighs. He looked at the food and Blaine could see a burning hunger in his eyes, even more fierce than the longing to be outside of the window. He ran a hand through the boy's hair, it was still damp and a few stray strands clung to his fingers.

Kurt bowed his head and waited. Both of them ignored the low rumbling of his stomach. Blaine ripped off a piece of the bread and dipped it in the broth. He wasn't sure how Kurt would have liked to eat it, but this would have to do for the boy. He held out the food, holding one hand underneath to catch any soup that might drip off. Kurt leaned forward slowly, taking the bread in his mouth with a practiced patience. Blaine could tell that the boy's stomach was greedy, and he had to fight every instinct to keep from wolfing down the food, and perhaps Blaine's hand with it. But after chewing slowly, and swallowing the piece of bread, Kurt waited, patient as ever, for the next piece, his stomach grumbling even louder now at the prospect of being properly filled.

Blaine continued to rip the bread and soak it in the broth, feeding Kurt bite sized pieces. When all of the bread was gone, he picked up the bowl and pressed it to the boy's pink lips. Kurt opened his mouth slightly, and swallowed obediently as Blaine tipped the last of liquid into his mouth. He found Kurt's display of obedience oddly arousing, and try to ignore a slightly new feeling of stimulation. He fought against the thoughts in his mind as he looked down at the smiling boy who was kneeling next to his desk. Kurt reached up to wipe at a small amount of soup that had escaped his mouth. "Thank you, Master Blaine," he said. And Blaine could tell he meant it.

* * *

><p>The next morning found Blaine waking next to Kurt in bed, Blaine in his satin pyjamas, and Kurt unclothed as usual. Blaine traced a finger down the boy's defined spine, trying not to imagine the way in which his vertebrae had become so prominent. Kurt shivered and arched his back before rolling over. His eyes were still full of sleep, and his hair was mussed from what Blaine could only assume was a night of restlessness. "Good morning, Master Blaine," he said, letting his mouth gape open with a loud, long yawn. "Is there anything I can do for you?" The words were all right, but there was a blazing behind the boy's eyes that Blaine just couldn't ignore. This one was definitely going to be hard to tame.<p>

Blaine rolled over onto his back and looked up at the high ceiling above his bed, placing his hands on his stomach. "Kurt," he asked thoughtfully, "how did you become a slave? Did you do something wrong?"

"You don't want to know," Kurt said, watching Blaine closely.

"Do not presume to tell me what I do and do not want, Kurt," Blaine said stiffly, the amicable mood dissolved quickly, only to be replaced by an ice cold animosity. "Now answer my question…properly." He turned to glare at Kurt, and saw, to his surprise, not anger or sadness there, but a desperate humiliation in the boy's eyes.

"I'm sorry," he stammered his apology quickly and reached out to touch Blaine's shoulder tentatively. When Blaine didn't pull away or reprimand him, Kurt let his hand fall more heavily on the shoulder. Blaine felt as though electricity was running through him at the touch and wouldn't have been able to pull away even if he wanted to. "It was a year or so ago," Kurt began, and Blaine remembered dully that he had asked the slave a question. "I was…taken."

"How?"

"They found me and took me." His answers were short and curt, clipped as though he was leaving something out. While his answers were irritatingly vague, he was doing as Blaine asked and was being honest, so he really couldn't be punished. Blaine nodded and pushed himself out of bed.

"I'm going to take a shower. Come with me." It wasn't a request, but it also wasn't an order. Blaine really didn't want to push himself on Kurt, but since his dream last night, he was hoping the boy would come with him. And either Kurt was interested in Blaine, too, or he had been trained very well, because he followed obediently and climbed into large shower while Blaine stripped off his pyjamas. Kurt reached out to turn on the water and stood, shivering, under the cold spray of water. Blaine reached out and turned up the temperature of the water. "For God's sake, Kurt, you can change the temperature of the water without me telling you to."

Kurt nodded but didn't respond otherwise. Blaine clambered into the shower, trying not to be embarrassed or feel modest about his body. He had seen Kurt naked for a whole day, and then some, so why should he feel nervous about what the stupid slave thought? Blaine glanced down against his will to compare his cock to Kurt's. He had never really consciously taken measure of his size but now found himself concerned that he might not measure up, and Kurt would be mocking him in his head. Once more, Blaine tried to shake the thoughts. It didn't matter what Kurt thought – it only mattered what he did and how he acted. Kurt, for his part, seemed to be enjoying the warm water. He was practically melting under the spray, just standing there with his eyes closed and his mouth turned up in a half smile.

"My shampoo's in the blue bottle." Blaine hoped Kurt would take the hint so that he wouldn't have to give the damn command outright. As he had noted before, the slave was smart, and Kurt reached for the blue bottle of shampoo and squeezed an ample amount of the substance into his hands before rubbing his palms together and working up a bit of a lather. His sleight height advantage was perfect for this. Just standing on tip toe, he was able to scrub Blaine's hair and work the shampoo through his curls, scratching just the right amount at his scalp.

"Master, you may want to close your eyes." It wasn't until Kurt warned him against the threatening sting of shampoo in his eyes that Blaine realized he had been staring at Kurt's lithe torso and limbs all while his hair was being washed. He clamped his eyes shut immediately and heard Kurt re-directing the shower head so that the spray of water fell onto him. Kurt worked out the shampoo and began running his hands over Blaine's back. "Where is your conditioner, Master?"

Blaine let out a groan when Kurt took his hands away, but somehow managed to get out a few words. "Over there. Brown bottle." He pointed with a limp hand and wished Kurt would hurry up. He had never felt so good.

"Is this other one your body wash?"

Blaine couldn't help blushing a little. Not many people knew that he had body wash in his shower. "Yes," he finally said. "I'd better never catch you using it on yourself."

"No," Kurt said flatly, and Blaine heard the cap of a bottle being snapped open. He hadn't bothered to open his eyes yet, enjoying the relaxation of the shower far too much. He was going to have to ask his parents to have one of those water proof sound systems installed in here – that would just be the icing on the cake. "I would never do that." Suddenly Blaine felt warm hands on his chest, running in small circles. "Do you like this?" Kurt's voice was knocked down an octave as ran his fingernails over Blaine's nipples, just scratching the sensitive flesh there.

Blaine tried to say yes in reply, but all he really managed was an indecipherable "Ungh…" However, Kurt seemed to understand, because he continued to rub the body wash over Blaine's upper torso, up and down his arms, deftly massaging the muscle there. He gently pressed on Blaine's chest to manoeuvre him back under the water. Once all of the soap was gone, his tongue lapped at Blaine's nipples, encouraging the pink flesh to harden and peak. "Is this good?" he asked, letting one hand trail down to Blaine's hip, the other grasping the back of his head to steady the both of them.

"Oh, God, yes," Blaine muttered, trying to manage to say something moderately coherent.

There were hands on his pelvis and then there weren't, but there was a pop of a cap and Blaine knew what was coming next. Of their own accord his hips bucked forward, longing to meet Kurt's hands. Suddenly soapy palms rubbed over his tense thighs, massaged the muscle of his ass, and reached down to his feet. "Please tell me to stop if I'm upsetting you." Blaine merely rocked his hips forward a second time and reached behind, feeling for the bench so that he could hold onto something and support himself. Kurt's palm wrapped around his cock and he let out a guttural moan, this was nothing like he expected. It was 10,000 times better. But suddenly Blaine flushed and pulled away, slipping on the tile and landing hard on the bench. His eyes fluttered open and he saw Kurt kneeling in the shower, his hands on his mouth.

"I'm so sorry," he was worried, not that had hurt Blaine, but that he had upset him and would be punished for it. "What did I do wrong? I'm sorry, I'm just learning." He shuffled over to where Blaine sat, limbs loose like jelly, unable to move. Kurt was still on his knees and brought his head to rest on Kurt's thigh. "Please, let me fix it."

Blaine pushed impatiently at Kurt, trying to get away from him. He felt nauseated, he was going to vomit. He stood quickly and pushed his way out of the shower, falling in front of the toilet just in time, pulling the lid open and expelling the contents of his stomach into the bowl. His insides tightened and clenched, emptying once more. He rocked back onto his heels and wiped at his face before turning to see Kurt standing near him, dumbstruck. Kurt ran his fingers through his hair, tugging slightly at it. His muscles were visibly shaking. "Please, Master," he said walking over to sit by Blaine, "don't send me back there, I'll be better. I _can't_ go back."

Not willing to lose the upper hand, Blaine placed a hand on Kurt's shoulder. "I won't send you back, Kurt. How embarrassing would it be to admit I chose the wrong slave? We'll work on everything, it will be okay." He pushed himself up from the floor and left Kurt there. He still felt sick to his stomach – how could anyone do that? Let a complete stranger do _that _with them just because they "owned" them. It had felt so good, and Kurt didn't really seem to mind, but Blaine still couldn't manage to rationalize it in his head. He stepped back into the shower, but when Kurt moved to follow, he put up a hand. "Go dry yourself off," he ordered before shutting the door to the shower and effectively blocking Kurt out.


End file.
